


Mud and Crushed Velvet

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Sibling Incest, Templar Carver Hawke, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Carver Hawke/Male Hawke
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: Anonymous, Nobody Expects the Dragon Age Smutquisition





	Mud and Crushed Velvet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/gifts).



Garrett bends so quickly and easily to Carver’s touch—like it’s the most uncomplicated thing in the world—and Carver hates that. He hates it because it shouldn’t be easy, not when one of them is a mage and the other a Templar, not with all the rage and struggle and blood between them. But it is. Garrett’s hands are tied behind his back so he can’t cast—the red rope twisting twice across his shoulders and then twice more under his chest, pulling and squeezing—and he looks up at Carver from the dirt floor with none of the anger that Carver wants to see in his brother’s eyes.

Carver wants Garrett to be angry because it’s easier that way. The first time they ended up like this—whatever _this_ is—it had started with a fight. It had been at the Hanged Man, Carver with a group of other Templar recruits and Garrett the other side of the tavern with a group people who’d once been Carver’s friends, and there had been something about the way Garrett held himself that absolutely fucking infuriated Carver. Maybe it had been the way he carried the staff on his back so openly; maybe it had been the way he had snuck quick glances at the group of recruits, brow furrowed and hands balled into fists; maybe it had just been the too-many-ales Carver had drunk over the evening. Either way, they’d ended up in one of the Hanged Man backrooms, Garrett pushed up against the wall with Carver’s knife at his throat.

The anger makes it easier because it makes it easier for Carver to believe he’s right. And he isn’t—he knows it. None of what the two of them are doing is right, and no amount of lashing himself into a fury over Garrett—the favourite son, the special child, the one who got to claim back the estate and the title—will change that. But _Maker_ , does it make it feel good.

Garrett looks up at him from the floor with wide eyes, and for a moment he looks genuinely helpless. The Lowtown dirt floor has stained the crushed velvet— _because of course Garrett thinks he’s noble enough for that_ —of his robes and his skin is pale, as if all the blood has drained from his face.

“You going to turn me in if I don’t cooperate?”

Carver can’t help but laugh, low and dry and humourless, because of course Garrett is asking that of him. Of course Garrett thinks so little of him. “No.”

There’s only the faintest hit of a change in expression in Garrett’s face, but spending most of his lifetime in his brother’s shadow has given Carver the ability to read him well.

“Oh,” he says, finally understanding what it is that Garrett wants. That it’s easier for him if it’s forced, just as it’s easier for Carver if it’s angry. “Maybe. Yes.”

His older brother smiles, just faintly, and Carver buries a hand in his hair, tugging him into place by the roots.

Garrett doesn’t resist, not when Carver jerks his head from side to side like he’s a dog on a leash, not when he’s dragged halfway across the warehouse to knee in front of the peeling walls, and not when Carver frees his cock from his breeches and presses the tip to Garrett’s lips. The older Hawke doesn’t escalate things—not like the first time they did this, when he forced his head so far on Carver’s cock that he started to choke—but there’s no attempt to fight back, no defiance or indignation. He moves when Carver makes him move—no more and no less.

Garrett doesn’t flinch when the slap comes either. It’s only afterwards, with the sound echoing in the empty room that Carver even notices any reaction at all. And even then, it’s almost nothing. A tense of the jaw and his eyes a little watery, and nothing more. And Carver hates that, because _damnit,_ he’s wearing his gauntlets and he can see where the metal plates on the back of his hand have left small cuts on Garrett’s cheeks, and _the man still won’t react_. He hates it even more because, in his gut, he knows what he wants to do—what he’s _going to do_ —is a sin, one that all the weeping and self-flagellation in the world won’t make the Maker forgive him for. But Garrett makes it so satisfying.

Carver doesn’t need to be as rough as he is when he presses Garrett’s head against the wall, but ‘need’ isn’t the point. A little more paint chips away where he rests his arms, propping himself up against the wall as he presses his cock against his older brother’s mouth again. Garrett parts his lips, meeting Carver’s eyes, just for a second. And Carver stops because there’s something in his brother’s eyes—the same green eyes that Carver has—that’s so sad and empty and _small_ that he has to, and that one second of pause is enough for the shame to hit him all over again.

_Mother would hate us if she saw us like this._

The thought is unbidden and unwelcome, but it comes anyway. Carver tightens one hand into a fist. His cock is still in his brother’s mouth, still for long enough that he can feel Garrett start to choke. Garrett’s mouth is tight and wet and warm, and Carver knows it’ll be tighter still when he pushes the full length of his cock into his brother’s mouth, so far that reaches the mage’s throat. At least it will be if he can bring himself to do it.

He relaxes his clenched fist, laying his palm flat against the wall as he tries to find the will to do it. And he finds it.

_Mother is dead._

Everything the two of them do is easier when Carver is angry, after all.


End file.
